


I could have had another life

by sherlock221Bismymuse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt John Watson, M/M, Not a happy ending but it is what Mofftiss gave us, POV John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 09:15:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14808497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlock221Bismymuse/pseuds/sherlock221Bismymuse
Summary: Thinking faster than the speed of light. What goes on in John’s brain between realizing that Sherlock is alive after all and the subsequent violence.





	I could have had another life

He is back.

He is NOT DEAD.

Not….. dead……

The words echo and drag around me like a slowmo soundtrack and time slows down.

And then the rage kicks in.

The synapses are in overdrive and in the next split second a millions thoughts have raced through my brain.

He is NOT DEAD.

He was alive all these years and he let me believe a lie. He let me mourn. He left me behind like an idiot. He abandoned me. He never cared for me.

He sees everything and he never saw what I felt for him?

Or did he see it and still choose to leave me behind?

He could not have done this alone.

At least one other person knew. Mycroft for sure and maybe others also.

They knew.

While I was in the dark.

While I was mourning and weeping and talking to his gravestone, they were talking to him on the phone.

While I was begging into the ether for one more miracle of being able to see him, maybe they were meeting him.

I am breaking down on the inside. I am under attack. Threatened.

My very life rendered meaningless by this return from the dead.

And my fist flies out in self- preservation.

I am an emotional man who has seen too much of everything.

I have lived through a war.

I have seen and felt pain, sorrow, death, trauma, love, betrayal, hatred.

And right now they are all dancing on the battlefield of my heart.

My heart has been ripped open and is bleeding on the pavement. The way it had 2 years ago.

The old scars cannot hold anything in any more.

I want to punch a hole in the fabric of time and space and rage and rage at this cruel universe.

I make do with next best.

That is a satisfying crack under my fist.

For once I , Dr John Watson who could not bear to see a scratch on Sherlock Holmes and felt the pain he suffered even before he recognized it, I am deeply satisfied at having made him feel even a tiny portion of the pain I went through.

Pain is not even remotely the right word for it. It is like looking at the planet Earth and say oh look, some water and land. Or looking at the sky and saying well there are some stars out there.

It was not pain. It was agony. It was distress. It was a living death. It was not just the stuff of nightmares, it was my actual nightmare.

Everything I did for him was to keep him safe and alive. Made him eat on time, protected him, had his back, walked by his side, ran when he called, checked on him when he did not call.

Went with him when it was convenient. I went even when it was not convenient.

Even my bloody blog which the therapist made me start became entirely about him.

He was my life. And he took it away from me as though it never belonged to me in the first place.

As though he never belonged to me.

As though I never belonged to him.

My mind is spilling over with white noise and static.

He had told me once, long ago,that that the static buzz we see when the TV signal goes off is actually the faint sound leftover from the Big Bang.

That is what my brain and my life feels like right now.

A distant buzzing from the leftover of the Big Bang that has torn apart the fabric of my reality.

We had spoken on the multiverse theory and I had seen a brief glimpse of another universe where we would be together.

In fact where we would have met much earlier and been together longer. Grown old together. Built a life together. Woken up next to each other every morning and kissed each other to sleep at night. Where I could hold him and touch him and keep him safe. Where he could hold me and touch me and keep me close. Where I would kiss him any time of the day and night just because I could. And where I would kiss him all the time because I wanted to.

But I was also willing to live in this life in this universe where if not everything I had at least something. Woke up in the same house if not the same room. I could touch him and hold him when he was injured. I could look at him and dream of other things. I could be by his side always.

Then he had taken that universe and every other multiverse in his beautiful hands and ruthlessly crushed them all to tiny shards that were piercing deeper into my heart with every contraction of its chambers.

That day inside St. Bart’s when we first met he had given my life meaning in a way that it had not had before.

From the rooftop of the same building he had rendered my entire life and existence a meaningless agony of despair.

The gun I had pulled out to save his life the day we met had become my daily bedtime tale.

I had pulled the trigger to save his life, now should I pull it to save mine?

Will he? Won’t he?

Will pulling the trigger give me a happily ever after I can be with him wherever he is now?                   

.

.

.

Maybe I should have done it.

Maybe I still could.

Maybe I will go ahead and marry Mary after all.

 


End file.
